that's mrs. mediocrity to you

negative space holds the shape of things

we know this, but choose to dance in the open plains
because existence enjoys being contrary

explain to a child the difference
between holey and holy

wholly

or the nature of sanity
and the way the stars all revolve
around one direction

or why i’m bound to sit
facing southeast

watching a halo of hair
glint off the arms
of the distant day
you embraced me

.

.

.

fifteen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

this year.

i can’t keep up with anything.

then again, most days i’m glad i’m not in the race.

it’s become the year of silence. of thinking. cringing. thinking some more.

but no matter how many ways i try to separate good and evil, noble and sinister, right and wrong, i just keep coming back to that same thought.

we all have a heart.

perhaps some of us have ours in the wrong place, but who’s to say?

not me.

i’m just going to sit here and watch the flowers grow.

listen.

learn.

hold tight to all the questions

and keep my own heart on my sleeve,

right where it’s always been.

.

.

.

the wind tells tales of emptiness
littering wide roads with leaves just released
from the captivity of decent living

beneath a sky gone grey with culture
an empty swamp sags with the pattern of destruction
heron filled and heron full on rotting fish and
stain stitched opportunity

and all the green has rolled inward, hoping for storm
or honest anger
finding nothing but dry heat hot
from the memory of august
balanced on the razor of reduction

the sun sinks red and rises false rose golden
as blinding answers dive
into the dusty hardheart crevasse of question
playing host to this catalog of possibility

while the distant beauty vulture
screams his mocking two-faced litany
of violent regeneration

.

.

.

.

.

all settled in

to the confine

of vine

and blooming

just the same

.

.

.

there is this heat you wear like a blanket

there is this weight you carry in a pocket made from penance

there is silence in the mist of white noise

there is sanctuary

hidden

.

.

.

it’s so easy to focus on the flaws.

easy to miss the forest for the trees when you want to keep standing in the shade.

the big picture contains so much information, when all i want is this leaf or that berry or maybe even a thorn.

a pair of cardinals live in the yard just now, young it seems, and foolish, often landing just feet away from NaughtyKitten. I want to warn them, run at them arms high and voiced raised to scare them off for good. but i like having them here, listening to their incessant chirp, and i like that they land just outside the door. perhaps i admire their optimism.

but inside me, a little voice keeps saying do something, as if i’m the one in charge, as if it’s all up to me, as if i can fix the situation.

it rained last night for the first time in months. at least any sort of rain that meant anything, we’ve had a few sprinkles here and there, but this was thunder and lightning and a brief downpour, which is better than no downpour at all. no matter that it meant i got no sleep.

this morning the humidity stands tall in the yard, and i wonder if the flowers revel in the sauna, or if it just makes them feel tired and lazy, too.

i smell the pepper of phlox and marvel that the plant is still there, just outside my window, despite the fact that i’ve planned to dig it up for years. i have no desire to count how many.

the circus has come to america’s backyard, but no one knows who is selling the tickets.

i wonder if the babies will survive.

i wonder if those cardinals and the cat have made a pact.

i wonder if i’m crazy for thinking these things.

a small airplane makes itself known overhead, disturbing the stillness.

i wonder what’s it’s like to fly so high.

.

.

.

in a world filled with
shard and degradation

i am lost
i am silence
i am beauty

standing bent
but barely broken

i am thirst
i am hunger
i am courage

bleeding scent to
shadowed corners

i am beauty
i am silence
i am found
.

.

.

.

it all goes

in stages

and phases

.

to bloom

means embracing

each

one

.

.

.

and you wear them on your heart
like a badge or a pin
or a reminder to remember

you expose them
to the elements

harden them off

rub them raw

until they weave
their own shield of shadow
and eventually
stop hurting
when they’re touched

.

.

.